


the resolution for survival

by nighimpossible



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Friendship, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Past Abuse, Recovery, Strip Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/pseuds/nighimpossible
Summary: Kynan quickly realizes that Jarett must have settled himself where he'd been before he had barged in: back to sitting outside his door and making sure Kynan doesn’t do anything rash. A heavy, satisfied feeling settles in his gut, and Kynan finds himself both ashamed and pleased to note that someone actually gives a damn if he survives the night.Well, at least someone is being paid to make sure he survives the night. Maybe that’s enough.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jackclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackclaw/gifts).



> Warnings: some mentions of suicidal ideation, as well as past childhood/emotional abuse. Poor Kynan :(
> 
> Spoilers through episode 79.
> 
> Title is from this longer quote in the book _Cherry_ , by Mary Karr:
> 
>    
>  _And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody—anybody—who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given._

 

 

They take away his daggers, and that’s fine. At first, he thinks it’s so that he can’t fight back against them, can’t go back on the change of heart he made to betray Ripley. But then Kynan sees the knowing, pitying expression on Vax's face, like Vax somehow understands the incapacitating guilt that seems to stab into Kynan’s gut like a sharp, well-thrown knife, and—

 

 _Oh_ , Kynan realizes with a start. _He thinks I want to kill myself_.

 

He’s not right, but he’s not wrong, either. At the moment, Kynan just wants to disappear.

 

“Are you cold?” Vax asks. Kynan looks down at his hands to find that his fingers are trembling. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking from a man he used to emulate—but also a man he had been trained to loathe. Ripley had lied, saying that Vax and his friends were going to bring this country to ruin. She whispered poison in Kynan's ear about how Vox Machina desired power and glory above all. Ripley told him that they were _protecting_ the world by stopping those so-called _heroes_. There had been something off about her—something about the crackling wildfire he saw in her eyes that made him uneasy—but she had recognized Kynan's abilities and plucked him from obscurity, just how Kynan had always imagined Vax might have done. He trusted her because she saw things in Kynan he'd always believed about himself: that he was strong enough. That he had _potential_. Anna Ripley had bought his loyalty for scraps and cashed it in for all it was worth.

 

Kynan remembers Percy's pale, bloodied corpse, with his blank blue eyes open and out of focus behind cracked golden spectacles. He feels sick.

 

"Kynan," Vax says quietly, his voice a desperate plea, but Kynan simply turns himself inwards and away. When he had approached Vax months ago for instruction, Kynan had wanted so many things from the man: acknowledgement of his potential, an apprenticeship, and a perhaps a hint of affection.

 

Now, Kynan’s not sure what he wants. He's certainly not enjoying the heartbroken look the other rogue is giving him. Maybe he'd like a little peace and quiet, for starters.

 

“I want to sleep,” is what Kynan tells Vax. “I didn’t do much of that last night.”

 

Vax looks away, a dark expression passing over his features like a shadow. Vox Machina had spent last night in a circle around their friend's corpse, crying and praying to whatever deities would lend them an ear. Kynan knows because he watched them from a distance, keeping his back to the wall as he envied the inanimate, solid flatness of the surface behind him. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone slept well.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time in months, Kynan finds himself alone. They’ve taken him to his own room, and while it doesn’t feel like a prison, he knows he can’t exactly leave. He takes his hands out of his pockets. They still twitch at the fingertips, like they are tree branches bending to the wild winds of a hurricane.

 

“You _fucking_ fool,” Kynan whispers harshly to himself.

 

What is _wrong_ with him? Is there something so broken inside him that he'd follow at the heel of anyone who gave him a smattering of attention? Had he really been so affection starved that he’d turn toward the first person who had showed him compassion? Perhaps he had been. Perhaps he still is. It was, after all, how he had been raised. Kynan’s father had spent his days carving meat or getting drunk, sometimes doing both at the same time. Kynan can’t remember a memory of his father that isn’t tinged with the smell of cheap liquor. Da had tolerated Kynan’s childhood dreams of becoming an adventurer but quickly became weary with Kynan’s flights of fancy soon after his mother had passed away.

 

“You’re a butcher’s son,” his Da had drawled harshly after Kynan had expressed interest in seeking out a mentor to teach him how to wield a blade properly. Kynan would _find_ Vax’ildan of Vox Machina, _ask_ to apprentice under him, and learn how to be a _proper_ rogue—and maybe with some borrowed gold he could get some _real_ daggers, and— “And you were born to be a _butcher_ , not some vigilante running around the countryside with fancy thoughts about being something you’re just _not_.” His Da spits the last word like it sets a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re a skinny thing, lad.” He’d grabbed Kynan’s arm, hard enough to leave a bruise, and hadn’t let go. Kynan struggled to escape his grip, but he couldn’t get away. He was transfixed by that dark, dismissive gaze. “If _I_ could snap you like a damn twig, what’s the rest of the world gonna do?”

 

He _could_ snap Kynan like a twig. He had, in the past, brought down a closed fist or a belt against him. It was how Kynan had first learned to evade: sometimes his father would be too drunk to catch him. Those were the good nights.

 

“I’ll take my chances,” Kynan had replied, finally tugging his arm away from his Da’s grip, made strong through years of manual labor. Kynan could be strong like that if he stayed.

 

He couldn’t stay.

 

“Watch your damn tongue, boy,” Da had warned. “You think your Ma would want to see you run away from your responsibilities? From your _family?_ You’re a _Leore_ , not some bloody knight in shining armor.” He spits on the ground at Kynan’s feet. “My son’s a butcher. You? I don’t know who you are.”

 

Leaving his father’s house had been easy after that. Throwing that life away had been simpler than Kynan had anticipated. Cutting the cord was quick enough. He just had to find Vax.

 

And, well. That had gotten him nowhere.

 

Kynan paces across the room in a straight line, back and forth, as his heart beats around erratically in his chest.

 

He ran away to Kymal, and that’s where Ripley had ensnared him. Ripley, with her dancing eyes and her honeyed words. Ripley, who exuded authority, who had told Kynan he was more than the lowborn scum his Da had promised he’d always be. “You have talent,” she’d whispered in his ear. Every hopeful thought he’d ever had about becoming something more sung along to the charming, seductive tune she’d played for him.

 

Would his mother still love him now? All the things he’d done in Ripley’s service seem to grip around Kynan’s throat like a vice: he'd tortured for her, _killed_ for her. He was a bad man who had done bad things for a _terrible_ woman he should have known better than to trust. Would his father even recognize this new person he’d become?

 

He gulps as the greater fear sets in: that his father would finally see his own cruel features reflected in Kynan's face.

 

Kynan looks down at his hands and briefly sees them covered in blood. “Holy shit,” he shouts, jumping back. He backs up into a chair that topples over with a clatter, blinking his eyes over and over. After a moment, he dares to look at his hands once more, only to find them clean. "Stupid," he mutters to himself.

 

There’s a quick knock on his door, which seems like a courtesy more than a question of whether or not they can come in. The key turns in the lock and a tall man with a large crossbow strides into the room, weapon held aloft like he’s ready for a fight.

 

“Everything alright in here? I thought I heard something strange,” the guard asks, looking down at the toppled chair. His accent is fluid, like running water, and Kynan has to focus to make sense of it at first. He recognizes the man: it’s Jarett, the one that Vax had assigned to “keep on eye on him,” whatever that meant.

 

“Mr. Howarth,” Kynan says in a small voice, “sorry to scare you, I just—” and he gestures bleakly at the chair. “It was a mistake.”

 

He’s made a lot of mistakes, lately.

 

“It’s Jarett, please. Call me Mr. Howarth again, and I _will_ have to shoot you,” Jarett explains blithely, his teeth bright white against dark brown lips that settle into a smirking grin. He reaches down and sets the chair upright with an ease that Kynan can only liken to a dancer’s grace. “No harm, no foul.” Jarett’s face drops slightly, as he realizes that there’s actually been a lot of harm and many fouls committed by Kynan in the past few months. “Well. The chair’s not broken, at least.”

 

Kynan sinks down, not on the bed, but on the floor before the bed frame. He leans back against it and presses his palms together, not in any attempt to pray, but to try and stifle his nerves. Usually he has something to occupy his hands, to play with—

 

He wants his daggers. “I want my daggers,” Kynan says, looking up at Jarett from the floor.

 

“Not tonight,” Jarett says easily. “But soon, maybe.” He sits down in the righted chair and leans the crossbow against it. “I think tonight you need something else.”

 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Kynan says, anger coloring his voice. He doesn’t want to break down in front of this man, in front of someone Vax trusts.

 

“Maybe you don’t.” Jarett shrugs. “Maybe you do.” Kynan glowers. “Tonight, though, I think you need a friend.”

 

“Well, I’m in short supply,” Kynan says darkly. “I’m not exactly Mr. Popular around this city. That tends to happen after you help kill their lord.”

 

Jarett is looking at his nails. “You know, it’s actually Cassandra who’s in charge, not Percival.” Kynan shoots him an exasperated look. “What do you want me to tell you, that people are calling for your head?”

 

Kynan’s eyes widen. “They are?” His stomach lurches and he tries not to vomit.

 

Jarett’s eyes soften at the edges. “No, they’re not.” Kynan’s chest seems like it unclenches, and he takes a shallow breath. “Most people don’t even know who you are. Vox Machina has decided to keep your part in their story rather quiet.”

 

There was a time when Kynan would rather have been infamous than unknown, but now, knowing both extremes, he’d pick unknown any day of the week. “Good,” Kynan says, relief coloring his voice. “I don’t want to be known as a murderer." His eyes burn as he tries not to cry. "I don’t want to be known as anyone at all.”

 

Jarett purses his lips in a disapproving frown. “Think of it more like a clean slate.”

 

Kynan’s head whips up to stare at Jarett incredulously. “No. That’s not what I deserve.” He glances down at his hands, and though he doesn’t see blood this time, he knows that they’ve been stained before—and not with the righteous murder of bandits or thieves, but with the life force of heroes.

 

He closes his eyes and sees the redheaded druid cursing his name as he plunges Whisper into her chest. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to apologize to her. _Forgiveness is for people who deserve it_.

 

Kynan realizes that he spoke his last thought out loud when Jarett replies, “Not always.”

 

“What did you do?” Kynan asks boldly. He figures he has little else left to lose.

 

“Something bad,” Jarett shrugs.

 

Kynan huffs out a snort of exasperation. “No specifics, then?”

 

When Jarett laughs, full bodied and unapologetic, Kynan finds the corners of his mouth searching for an upward tilt. He doesn’t smile, but it feels good to elicit laughter from someone. “Perhaps I’ll tell you someday.” Jarett leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks down at Kynan. “You can earn a secret, maybe.”

 

Jarett leaves after making a quick plan for the next day—“I will meet you in the morning, yes?”—but Kynan doesn’t hear the telltale footsteps of a man walking away from his door after Jarett closes the heavy wooden frame behind him. Kynan quickly realizes that Jarett must have settled himself where he'd been before he had barged in: back to sitting outside his door and making sure Kynan doesn’t do anything rash. A heavy, satisfied feeling settles in his gut, and Kynan finds himself both ashamed and pleased to note that someone actually gives a damn if he survives the night.

 

Well, at least someone is being paid to make sure he survives the night. Maybe that’s enough.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You know how to do this?”

 

Kynan is a daggers man: always has been. Even as a child, he’d played with knives in the butchery. He’d throw them into the air, sparkling and sharp, and catch them by the handle—if he was lucky. Kynan’s mother would beseech him to stop playing with things that are only bound to hurt him, but Kynan never listened to her. He still has scars on his palms that show he’s never been very lucky.

 

Kynan is a daggers man, but Ripley taught him how to shoot. The hours that she had spent teaching him how to load the weapon and aim it properly had been a bit like stepping into the wrong skin. “Prepare for the recoil,” he recalls her instructing their group. Her voice was always coursing with a tension Kynan could not identify. Perhaps she was scared, or excited, or on the edge, ready to fall into the abyss of psychotic rage. Or maybe she’d been falling for a long time. “Ready your stance so that you don’t rock backwards. _Steady_.” The sibilant _s_ that she hisses in his ear stays with him for a long time afterwards. He still hears it, sometimes: like a snake in the garden, calling to him.

 

It was obvious from the start that the guns she gave her seconds were far different from the gun she kept for herself. That gun, the pistol she called Animus, crackled with a wild, purple energy that scared Kynan to the core. He'd also caught her once, in the dimmed darkness of night while they made camp on Glintshore, whispering to the gun in her hands like it had a spirit of its own. Like it could talk _back_. He watched as shadows swirled around the gun, dangerous and disturbing, until Kynan had forced himself to look away.

 

So the answer is yes, Kynan knows how to use the guns Vox Machina had salvaged from their fight with Ripley. He doesn't like them, though.

 

Jarett hands one of the pistols to Kynan, and the rest of the platoon that had been granted permission to train with the dangerous weapons stares at Kynan, ready to glean knowledge from him but also wary about the weapons in their hands.

 

Kynan unhooks the locking mechanism, releasing the cylinder and showing the group how the six bullets rest in each compartment. The motion comes back to him easily, the metal cold and familiar in his grip: a reminder of the terrible things he's done. “You get as many shots as you have bullets,” Kynan explains, his voice catching with Ripley’s words on his tongue. “Lock the cylinder into place,” and he clicks the cylinder back with a _snap_ , “and unhook the safety when you have eyes on target.”

 

Jarett, the man put in charge of this elite group, seems to read his mind, because he’s cocked his own crossbow, loaded with what looks like a bright red disc. He points it at the open sky that overhangs the parapet where the gunslinger squadron has stationed itself and shoots.

 

Kynan’s always been a daggers man, but his aim is true: he hits the target in one attempt. The others cheer and clap, congratulating him on his technique. Kynan locks the safety and lowers his arm. He doesn’t say how he slides, just a little, back into the person he used to be when he touches these weapons.

 

Jarett does not congratulate him, and when Kynan looks up to find his gaze, the edges of Jarett’s brows are turned downward: like he understands a part of Kynan breaks open whenever he lays hands on these guns.

 

A woman in the corp named Selene starts firing targets into the air for the others to aim at. The group isn’t bad—clearly Jarett had handpicked his sharpshooters well—but getting used to a pistol takes time. No one hits their target in their first six rounds, and while they reload, Jarett pulls Kynan aside.

 

“You’ll help my stance?” he asks, giving Kynan an encouraging smile. “Just make sure I’m doing it right. Then you can go get some food.” He’s giving Kynan an out from this trip down memory lane, potentially, and Kynan can’t help but release a sigh full of sinking relief.

 

“Okay,” Kynan nods, and Jarett takes aim. He motions at Selene, who shoots a target into the air. The loud _pop_ of the gun going off rings in Kynan’s ear. He watches the bullet just barely catch the edge of the target, and judging by Jarett’s disgruntled expression, Kynan can tell that he wants to do better.

 

“Here,” Kynan says, moving a few steps to stand behind Jarett. He’s shorter by a few inches, but by raising up onto his tiptoes, he can find Jarett’s line of sight easily. Their hips are aligned, and with about an inch between them, Kynan can take in the smell of him. A trace of earthy, wooded citrus finds his nose, and Kynan has to stop himself from leaning in further to chase the scent. Instead, he raises Jarett’s gun arm slightly and motions for Selene to pull once more. While she sets up her next target, Kynan kicks at Jarett’s right leg to put him into a more stable stance.

 

“Bossy,” Jarett grins down at him, adjusting his center of gravity accordingly. Kynan flushes a little. “Considering I hit the target on my first try.”

 

“Yeah, you hit it,” Kynan concedes. “ _Barely._ ” He takes hold of Jarett’s forearm and guides it as Selene nods, signaling that she’s ready to take her shot. “You have to aim true. The bullet moves faster than an arrow from your crossbow.”

 

Jarett nods. “Tell me when.”

 

Kynan doesn’t trust his voice not to break, so instead of a verbal okay, once Selene’s target has arced through the sky and into their crosshairs, Kynan nudges at Jarett’s trigger finger lightly. Jarett fires, taking the subtle command easily, and the red plate shatters into a million pieces.

 

They had hit the target, dead center.

 

“Pretty good,” Jarett smirks. He doesn’t shrug off Kynan’s grip, a move Kynan appreciates for the briefest of moments before he scrambles to make space in between the two of them. It’s nice to know that Jarett doesn’t seem to mind a traitor’s touch.

 

“I think you can handle it from here,” Kynan says weakly.

 

“Indeed,” Jarett nods. He pauses, looking curious more than anything else, before adding, “You know, I am rather good at handling things.”

 

Kynan doesn’t make a peep at that innuendo, simply scurries down the parapet and into the castle below.

 

He does take one look back up at the squadron. Selene is shooting targets into the air at random, and the rest of the group are taking orders from Jarett to shoot them down. Kynan watches as Jarett reaches around, aiming the gun from the small of his back—an absurdly difficult maneuver for a master gunslinger like Percy, and an inconceivably stupid idea for a beginner—and makes his shot right on target.

 

“Asshole,” Kynan murmurs to himself. The marksman had clearly never needed the help at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He tries to sleep: he really does. Some nights he’s lucky enough, or dead tired enough, that Kynan manages to make it through the evening in a dreamless, dark stupor of rest. Most nights, though, he gets into bed anxious and dives headfirst into the same nightmare that’s plagued him since he was a kid. Once again, he’s five years old and his father has his belt out. Kynan runs, but he can never run far enough. His heart thrums in his chest, and his fingers shake as he scrambles to get away. The thing, though, about having a nightmare for so many years, is that Kynan is no longer afraid. Instead he feels a deep-seated dread. He knows what’s coming.

 

There are new nightmares now, though.

 

Sometimes Anna Ripley, wreathed in shadow, greets him when he closes his eyes. “What exactly does it say about you, Kynan dear, that I saw something in your soul that those _good hearted_ heroes simply didn’t?”

 

“I don’t know,” Kynan lies. But he knows. He is made from cruel people to do cruel things.

 

“There is a darkness in you,” Ripley tells him. “It seeded itself inside you when you were a little boy. Don’t you know? Like draws to like.”

 

 _Like draws to like_. He hates that she’s right.

 

Those dreams end when he throws Whisper at Ripley, when she chokes out a wheezing, “ _Good work_ ,” before her life essence dribbles on the floor in a pool of red.

 

So Kynan doesn’t sleep much these days. And he can’t possibly just pace around his room until his legs give out. So he wanders.

 

Jarett no longer stands watch outside his door in the evenings, so when Kynan begins a nightly tour of the castle during the witching hours, there’s no one there to tell him to go back to bed. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to do so. He’s more than a little grateful that Jarett actually does have more important activities around Whitestone than simply babysitting him.

 

He gets to know the layout of the castle well. Kynan had done reconnaissance for Ripley during his time in her party, and he’s good at memorizing the schematics to a building or a city. Ripley made him better, of course: forcing him to draw out elaborate maps and repeat descriptions to her over and over again until it made his fingers ache and his head spin. So even in the low-lighting of the midnight hours in Whitestone, Kynan finds it easy to slip around undetected.

 

“Kynan?” a young voice asks. “Is that you?”

 

Shit. _Mostly_ undetected. Kynan still isn't sure exactly what his status within the castle is: prisoner or resident. He's not sure he really wants to try his luck with whoever has caught sight of him.

 

Cassandra De Rolo, lady of the castle, stands in the doorway to her study with an eye on Kynan like a spider’s web. She’s wearing nightclothes, but they’re modestly covered with a robe of royal blue velvet that’s been trimmed with white piping. De Rolo colors, from what Kynan can tell.

 

“Yes, m’lady,” Kynan nods. She is younger than him by a year or so, but _Lady De Rolo_ gives off a maturity that lends her many years beyond her actual age.

 

“It seems sleep evades us both this evening. Join me?” she asks, motioning him inside. Cassandra makes her way to her polished wooden desk and the large chair positioned behind it, dropping into the plush seat with a mild _whoosh_. Kynan follows her into the room. He does not sit.

 

“How are you finding your stay here in Whitestone?” Cassandra asks.

 

“Quiet,” Kynan says. Cassandra quirks her head at him in confusion.

 

“I thought you were training with the gunslingers,” she wonders aloud.

 

“Jarett’s taken that over,” Kynan waves off. “And it’s better this way,” he adds, noting the concern on her face. “I never really liked those things.”

 

Cassandra frowns. “What do you like, then?”

 

Kynan wants to laugh, because when he looks inside himself to the place where he should have wants and desires, it is as empty as a wasteland. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I don’t know anymore.”

 

In pursing her lips, Cassandra reminds Kynan a lot of her brother. Her thinking face has _De Rolo_ written all over it. “Maybe these will help,” she ponders, and pulls out a drawer of her desk. Cassandra pulls out a thin box, lifts up the top, and shows Kynan the contents inside.

 

One beautiful, inlaid dagger lies dormant before him, sitting on a plain white cushion. The steel is sharp and the handle is encrusted with what looks like obsidian. It is an assassin’s weapon, one of the three knives Vax had promised him, and when Kynan reaches for it, Cassandra tugs the box just out of his reach.

 

“This is me trusting you,” she tells him quietly. “Earn it.”

 

Her stance is open and without fear. She is not afraid that he will turn this dagger on her.

 

“I will,” Kynan vows, and Cassandra nods a little to herself as he sheathes the dagger on his belt. He does a small twirling flourish with it, and the ghost of a smile breathes across his lips. In the brief moment of reunion, it feels good.

 

“So you’re not a sharpshooter,” Cassandra thinks aloud. “But you still have use, I think. How would you feel about bodyguard?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s a good look on you,” Jarett grins at Kynan’s new honor guard attire.

 

“Come on,” Kynan grumbles, adjusting the epaulettes on his shoulders in annoyance. The whole ensemble feels like a costume: dark blues and whites cut across the armor in thin swathes. On someone else, they’d look rather heroic. On Kynan, it looks like a child trying on his older brother’s clothes. “I know it’s stupid.” The only good thing about the armor is that it’s not plate—he can still move around in it silently.

 

Jarett rolls his eyes. “I don’t lie. It’s a serious job, protecting the Lady of the castle. It also happens to come with nice threads.” He looks Kynan up and down with a gaze that implies more than a professional assessment, and Kynan looks away from the man before him, attempting to stave off any hint of a blush.

 

“To the war room, then,” Cassandra says loudly, nodding her head at Kynan and his counterpart, a burly fighter named Colm who is about twice the size of Kynan. He is dressed in the same outfit and Kynan cannot help but feel woefully small. He feels for his dagger and finds strength in the blade at his side. Perhaps Colm could smash him into a pulp, but Kynan’s dagger will be out and against someone’s throat long before Colm can unsheathe his maul.

 

Perhaps that was why Cassandra had picked the two of them: one would make up for the other’s missing pieces.

 

The ziggurat gives Kynan the creeps. He doesn’t understand why the small council members insist on meeting in the bizarre temple beneath the castle, not when there’s an unused war room right on the first level of the massive building, but Cassandra always insists on having her most covert conversations down in the ruined temple.

 

Kynan and Colm take their spots at the base of the ziggurat, watching as the rest of the council file in. He recognizes some, like Arcanist Vysoren, with her immaculate blond hair pulled back in a tight bun, but others, like the halfling with the mean scar running down her face, as well as the dark-skinned man in the purple robes who both follow on Allura’s tail, are new to Kynan’s eyes.

 

The purple robed man makes brief eye contact with Kynan, and he pauses in his step. “I know that dagger,” he hums to himself. The voice is almost musical in nature, and Kynan finds himself drawn in. “I sold it myself.” He says the words under his breath, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

 

This must be Gilmore, of Gilmore’s Glorious Goods, Kynan thinks to himself. He’d heard of the man _and_ the store in Emon, before he’d fled to Kymal. He had never had enough money to shop there, never had the opportunity to even peruse—

 

“It’s enchanted, you know,” Gilmore adds with a wink. He doesn’t need the wink, honestly: the man is gorgeous enough as is. Kynan’s cheeks flush brightly and the sound of a poorly disguised chuckle echoes in the vast room.

 

“Wait—enchanted?” Kynan finally says, confusion coloring his tone. Enchantments were _very_ expensive, he knew that. Maybe Gilmore thought that he’d stolen the dagger from whoever he’d sold them to. “It was a gift!” he adds in protest.

 

“That I don’t doubt,” Gilmore nods at him. “Use it in good health, friend.” He nods and starts back up the stairs, so far behind Allura and the halfling woman that they are mere spots on the horizon.

 

“Why you gotta get caught up with all the important folks around here?” Colm asks in a miserable, put-upon tone. Kynan, frankly, agrees with the sentiment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, slow down!” a familiar voice calls to him. Kynan is walking in the front courtyard, sharpening the dagger Cassandra had given him on a whetstone, when Vax finds him. “I need to talk to you.”

 

Kynan tries a smile. He notes that it comes easier to him than it did before, and Vax looks relieved. “Good to see you’re still alive,” Kynan nods.

 

“Good to still be alive,” Vax grins at him. “How’ve you been?”

 

Kynan tells him about the honor guard position, and while Vax frowns at Kynan’s disengagement from the gunslinger regiment, he looks pleased that Kynan has found a place in Whitestone near Cassandra’s side. “Keep an eye on her,” he instructs Kynan. “She’s important, that one. And not just because she’s Percy’s sister.”

 

Vax looks down at Kynan’s single dagger and frowns. “A real rogue needs more than one blade,” he says matter of factly, before reaching and pulling out _three_ fine blades. Two of them look rather a lot like the weapon Cassandra had handed him, like they were a trio set, but one is—

 

“I can’t accept that,” Kynan says, gesturing to the knife he knows to be the Keen Dagger. Gods, Kynan had watched Vax _himself_ wield that blade from afar. It is a hero’s weapon, something Kynan doesn’t deserve—

 

“It’s yours,” Vax says simply, pressing the dagger into Kynan’s hand. “Protecting Cassandra takes good steel. I _know_ that this is good steel.”

 

“I shouldn’t have this,” Kynan says darkly. It feels like a handout, like Vax feels _sorry_ for him. Kynan doesn’t want his pity. “This doesn’t belong on my belt.”

 

“Well, maybe not _that_ belt.” Vax frowns and unwraps the belt around _his_ waist. Kynan jumps as it comes alive in his hands.

 

“It’s a snake,” Kynan says curiously, reaching forward with a few fingers. The snake licks at the tip of his fingers in a testing but friendly fashion. Once deciding Kynan tastes acceptable, the snake wraps around his arm in a gentle hug.

 

“His name is Simon,” Vax says, and he sounds incredibly fond of enchanted creature. “We’ve been through a lot together. And I need you to take care of him.” Kynan watches as the snake wraps around his waist and stills into a perfectly crafted belt. He hooks the new daggers onto his belt and looks up at Vax, bewildered that he would part with such incredible items.

 

“Why?” Kynan asks.

 

Vax takes him by the shoulder for an awkward moment before pulling him in for a hug. “Good to see you’re still alive,” he says simply.

 

When Kynan lowers his hand to the belt buckle, Simon comes alive to lick at him with a kindness Kynan cannot believe he is being afforded. His vision blurs a little, and  _Gods_ , he does not want to cry in front of Vax. But he needs to say something. "Can you tell her I'm sorry?" Kynan asks feebly. "The druid. Can you tell her I didn't—I didn't want to—" He looks at the ground. "My head was so messed up then."

 

Vax ruffles Kynan's hair a little. The gesture is casual and affectionate, and Kynan's cheeks flush slightly. "I know. And I'll tell her."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cassandra is meeting with the heads of the merchant guild in Whitestone, and that means going directly into the heart of the town below the castle. Kynan and Colm are on duty, and Colm takes the lead, letting Cassandra walk in his wake while he makes sure that the path ahead is safe to tread. Kynan walks behind Cassandra at a slight distance, surveying the scene with a careful eye. He knows how to sneak up on someone in the dark. He knows how to block those shadows.

 

“Lady De Rolo, if you’ll step inside for me,” the head of the merchant council greets silkily. “We have a lot to discuss about our _funding_ these days…”

 

Cassandra looks over her shoulder at Kynan and gives him an aggravated glare, like this particular merchant has been causing her a lot of grief lately, before following the man inside. Colm is by her side and Kynan has a vantage point on the wide merchant’s tent.

 

“Whitestone has given you more than enough capital to restart your business within the city,” Cassandra says smoothly. “And we have agreed to pause on trade beyond our walls until this dragon business is over and done with.”

 

Kynan zones out of the conversation—he catches a scrap of a pinched reply, “But goods are _much_ more in demand, and thus prices you’ve set are _far_ too low—” as he surveys the tent. He has one hand resting on the Keen Dagger. Something about this situation is making him uneasy, but he cannot discern if that’s his own general anxiety or if there’s real danger in the air.

 

“You cannot expect me to squeeze my people dry when they’ve been effectively trapped within the city walls for weeks,” Cassandra says sharply.

 

“It’s either that, or the merchants leave,” the man tells her sharply.

 

Cassandra shoots him a deadly glare. “You know that leaving isn’t an option, Iago. So tell me what it is you really want.”

 

A small bead of sweat slips down Iago’s temple, a shadow moves behind Colm, and Kynan knows. He launches himself at the shadow, daggers out, and when Colm catches Kynan’s unsheathed steel, he yells, “ _Assassin!_ ” In a single motion, Colm has grabbed Cassandra and sprinted them both outside the tent, his mace swinging before him like some kind of deadly walking stick. Kynan knows the protocol: get the Lady to safety, throw up the flare, and wait for help.

 

But Kynan is fully engaged.

 

He throws the Keen Dagger and it finds flesh easily. The shadow before him materializes into a hooded man holding two sickles. He swings at Kynan, who ducks easily—he’s always been fast on his feet—but as Kynan reaches out to retrieve the dagger plugged into the assassin’s arm, the second scythe comes down against his shoulder. Pain, sharp and bright, radiates up his neck, and Kynan skirts away from the blade, leaving the dagger behind.

 

“The clasp sends their regards,” the assailant hisses, and he draws a small dagger out of the darkest folds of his cloak. Kynan reels back from the initial swipe, and as he takes two steps backwards, he sees that the blade is coated in a sickly green slime. _Poison_ , Kynan thinks in a brief moment, before the swipes begin again. He’s lucky until he isn’t, and he trips over a box that stops his retreat. “Got you,” the killer grins, and he drags the knife across Kynan’s cheek, drawing blood.

 

“No,” Kynan says with a growl, shoving both his knives up into the assassin’s chest. “Got _you_.”

 

Blood seeps down onto his clenched fists while the assassin chokes above him. The scythes clatter to the ground at Kynan’s sides as the body of the dying man sinks down on top of him.

 

“ _Weapons down, you’re surrounded!”_ Jarett roars, barreling into the tent with a few of his best men. When he sees Kynan and the assassin still on the ground, he mutters out a curse.

 

“He’s dead,” Kynan groans, trying to push the body off of him. “Or he will be soon.”

 

“Let me make sure of that,” Jarett says darkly, and he pulls the assassin off of Kynan in one easy tug. He points his crossbow at the assailant’s head and shoots him twice: a cold, efficient promise of a permanent sleep.

 

Kynan tastes something metallic, and he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. It comes away bloody, and his head starts to spin. “Poison,” Kynan grits out, falling to his knees. Jarett rummages through the assassin’s robes and finds the dagger. He tentatively licks the blade, savors the taste, and then spits the toxin onto the dusty floor.

 

“No problem,” Jarett nods, squatting down and getting a shoulder under Kynan’s arm and hoisting him up. “I know this venom.”

 

Kynan remembers being dragged out of the tent by Jarett, remembers the warmth of him against his side, remembers the bite of poison coursing through his veins—and little else, until he wakes up that night in the infirmary.

 

Colm is sitting there at his bedside when Kynan cracks open his eyes. “How was your nap?” he asks Kynan with the hint of a smile.

 

“Cassandra?” Kynan asks.

 

“Is safe,” Colm nods. “Thanks to you. That was some good work back there.” He raises an eyebrow and then reaches into his pocket. Kynan watches as he pulls out a square, silver medallion. “It’s for guards injured in the line of duty,” Colm explains. “I’d say you earned it. You don’t get no fancy ceremony for it, but it means something.”

 

It does mean something, and Kynan allows himself a smile as Colm pins it onto the uniform resting on Kynan’s bedside table.

 

He reaches up to touch his cheek, and Colm grins as his fingers come across smooth skin where a scar should be. “That tiny gnome girl is good at healing, that one,” Colm says. “Still as smooth and hairless as it was yesterday, don’t worry.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kynan is off-duty for the next week to recover, but sleep evades him—a dancing wish just out of his reach. He has shucked off his honor guard apparel for something a little more demur. He’d bought a black sweater from the town with the wages he’d earned from Cassandra, and it remains as soft and warm against his chest as when he felt the fabric with his fingertips in the shop a few days prior. His new daggers remain at his side, but he’s not dressed for a fight.

 

Neither, it seems, are the men and women he stumbles upon in the dining hall.

 

“Oy, Kynan! Get your ass over here, I need some fresh meat,” Selene crows at him. The gunslinger regiment he had quickly abandoned is sitting at two sprawling tables, as well as a few faces he doesn’t know. Jarett and what looks like a friend of his round out the group, and Kynan pauses before approaching. He’s not sure what these people think of him, after he’d left their company rather abruptly.

 

“You’re just looking for someone who doesn’t know your tell,” Jarett says knowingly to Selene, who scoffs loudly that she has no tell, thank you very _much_. “She plays with her mouth when she’s lying,” he leans over and whispers to Kynan conspiratorially as Kynan slots himself in next to Jarett on the bench. The same faint scent of rosewood falls across Kynan’s senses, but this time the heavy, thick smell of beer follows. It’s clear that Jarett’s been drinking for a while. “I don’t want you to lose all your hard earned wages, my friend.” Jarett is frowning at Kynan a little, like if he were slightly more sober, he wouldn’t let Kynan into the game.

 

“What’s the ante?” Kynan asks eagerly, leaning forward onto his elbows. He’s always hated being boxed out of things.

 

One carefully watched round where Jarett had slurred the rules in his ear, two large meads that made Kynan rather tipsy, and three silvers later, Kynan has a hand of cards in a game he barely knows how to play. “I’m out this round,” Jarett says lazily before leaning over to peruse Kynan’s hand. “Here, like I said: these two are paired,” he murmurs in Kynan’s ear, plucking one card and sliding it in between Kynan’s thumb and forefinger. He has one hand in Kynan’s hands and one at the small of Kynan’s back. “And if you play _this_ ,” Jarett nudges.

 

“I know, I know,” Kynan protests, sliding the card to Selene and snickering, “Draw six.”

 

Selene, with murder in her eyes, draws six cards, never breaking eye contact from Kynan. “You’re a wicked boy,” she hisses at him.

 

“He’s not wicked just because he’s beating your ass,” Jarett laughs.

 

Kynan raises an eyebrow, rearranges a few cards in his hands, and then splays them out on the table for all to see. “I win this round, I think,” he grins.

 

“What the hell,” Colm blurts out, throwing his hand to the table in frustration.

 

“Okay,” Jarett adds. “Maybe he’s a little wicked.”

 

Kynan’s best hand is his first, and things go downwards from there. Jarett plays the next few rounds and wipes the floor with the group, cleaning up rather soundly with a pair of cups. “How did you...” Kynan murmurs as Jarett reveals his third winning hand in a row.

 

“I have been playing Blind Man’s Bluff since I was a boy,” Jarett admits, raking in the silvers in the center.

 

“I’m done playing for money,” Selen groans, patting her empty pockets. “Strip?”

 

Kynan flushes furiously, burying his face in his mug and taking a few deep glugs. Jarett is looking at him with an assessing eye. “Fine,” Jarett nods, never taking his eyes off Kynan. “I’m in.” His gaze flicks down to Kynan’s chest and torso, and Kynan can feel the heat of Jarett’s eyes as he slowly sizes him up. It’s a dare.

 

“I’m in, too,” Kynan barely peeps out.

 

Kynan loses his socks quickly to Selene, who has a run of a few excellent hands, and then Kynan wins Colm’s jacket out of nowhere in a freakishly lucky draw. “It’s hot in here, anyway,” Colm grumbles, shirking off his coat and letting it fall onto the floor. Kynan’s fellow honor guardsmen is nearly twice the width of Kynan, even with his terrible posture.

 

“Nicely done,” Jarett compliments him, pressing his shoulder to Kynan’s own.

 

Colm pays him back in turn when Kynan is the first to lose his shirt. Selene catcalls a mocking, “Take it off!” Kynan flips her off in kind.

 

Kynan’s always been a scrawny kid, but his time with Ripley had filled him out a little. He had food on his plate every night, which was a far shot from his weeks in Kymal, where Kynan had taken to begging on days where odd jobs were scarce. He’d shot up a few inches in height since he’d left Emon, regardless, if he was to judge the way his old pants were skimming his ankles these days. Kynan had come into his man’s height under Ripley’s tutelage. He doesn’t want to think about what flourishing under the eye of a poisonous snake means about the person he’s become. “I think you need more sun,” Colm notes, and Kynan agrees: his chest _is_ rather pale in comparison to his tanned, freckled face.

 

Jarett coughs before adding in a tight voice, “Next hand, Selene?”

 

Selene takes them all for two articles of clothing the next round, even Jarett, who seems oddly distracted from his hand. Kynan watches Jarett take his time pull off his shirt. “You could just take off a sock,” Kynan says weakly as Jarett tugs the fabric over his head. The man is _disgustingly_ cut, and Kynan has to do a double take. His skin seems to almost _glow_ in the candlelight of the hall, and his arms are taught and muscled. It’s just—astonishing.

 

“Show off,” Selene says sourly from across the table.

 

“I don’t think you’d be as impressed with me just taking off a sock,” Jarett shrugs, rolling his shoulders back in a slow, careful motion that catches Kynan’s eye.

 

Kynan reflexively mutters, “Depends on where the sock is placed, doesn’t it,” and immediately puts his hand over his mouth. “I mean—”

 

But Jarett barks out a loud, genuine laugh, and when he looks back at Kynan, it’s like Kynan’s being seen for the first time. “You can stay,” he grins at Kynan, and Kynan feels belonging like a rock in his stomach, anchoring him down to the ground. It feels good to be steadied.

 

They play until Selene calls it a night, and when Colm quickly follows her with a thinly veiled excuse, Kynan thinks to himself that the two of them could be a little less obvious.

 

Then he looks over at Jarett, who is walking over in nothing but his pants with two steins of mead in his hands. Kynan allows himself a small smile and then thinks, _pot, kettle, black_.

 

“Do you have any family back there?” Jarett asks curiously. It’s obvious he’s talking about Emon.

 

Kynan’s mouth forms into a tight line. “Yes,” he admits. “And no.” He’s not sure he’d count his father amongst his kin these days: after the man had kicked him out of the house, Kynan had decided his ties to that man and his shop were severed, even if they were technically related. “Blood doesn’t always mean what it should,” he explains vaguely, but Jarett seems to get it.

 

“Wise words for one so young.” He raises an eyebrow before drinking to them, tilting the mug back.

 

“I’m twenty,” Kynan lies. He’s nineteen and he won’t be twenty for six months, but for some reason, he wants Jarett to think that he’s responsible, older, worldly. “Why, did you leave someone behind?”

 

Jarett shrugs. “I’ve worked for Vox Machina for a few years now. I didn’t really know what I was signing on for when Vex hired me, but my professional ties are to them. In terms of family, I’ve got a smattering of relatives back in Ank’harel.” He looks off into the middle distance before adding, “I doubt I’ll ever see them again.”

 

“You can’t go back?” Kynan asks, curiosity getting the better of him. The drink loosens his tongue a little, and he leans forward, letting his elbow touch Jarett’s forearm.

 

Jarett evaluates him with a quiet look before nodding. “I broke the law. Barely escaped Marquet with my life.”

 

Kynan looks into his mug. “Did you kill someone?”

 

Jarett nods. “The wrong someone.” He tilts the mug back and drains his drink dry. “The son of a priest,” he adds.

 

Kynan drinks back as much as he can manage before asking, “Did he deserve it?”

 

“I thought so, at the time.”

 

“And now?” Kynan tilts his head at him.

 

Jarett shrugs his shoulders. “Oh yes, he was a piece of shit. Now, I’d do it again—but better.”

 

“You wouldn’t get caught this time,” Kynan grins at him.

 

“Obviously,” Jarett says with a smile.

 

Kynan’s not sure how or why he earned this secret, but he’s glad to know something personal about Jarett. He’d said, weeks ago, that Kynan would have to work for this knowledge. Kynan’s just not sure what he did to warrant this privileged piece of information. He hasn’t done much since getting to Whitestone besides acquiring a job and quitting the gunners.

 

Jarett leans his thigh against Kynan’s, and Kynan cannot help but think that despite the fact that he hasn’t done much in name, he is a vastly different person now than he was when he arrived. Now, he has a city that he likes. Here, he has a job that he’s good at. And Gods, Kynan cannot remember the last time he had friends.

 

Ripley’s troupe had been a cobbled together group of hardened criminals and people who had nowhere else left to turn. Kynan had found himself too scared to approach most members of his old party, and Ripley had liked the fact that her underlings weren’t too chummy with each other. At the time, Kynan had been terrified that she’d cut him loose, so he’d simply stayed quiet and kept to himself as much as possible.

 

Here, though, Selene smiles at him in the mess hall when he walks in. Cassandra had laughed at a joke of his the other day. And Colm had even offered to show Kynan around town. Things are different in Whitestone for many reasons.

 

“I haven’t told many people that story,” Jarett says casually.

 

“You barely told me that story,” Kynan replies, but he still feels rather special. Maybe it’s stupid to get so hung up on this man, but it is at least a nice distraction from the empty feeling he gets when he’s alone for too long.

 

“Still,” Jarett says, cracking a grin. “I think an eye for an eye is in order.” Jarett has his hand in front of his mouth, and he slips his thumb between his lips almost accidentally, wetting it at the tip. He ends up dragging his finger along his lush lower lip, the sheen of his own saliva glinting in the torch light, and Kynan finds himself drawn in like he’s been snagged by a lure. “What are you going to give me?”

 

Kynan could tell Jarett about his father, about the abuse. He could chronicle his time in Kymal for the man. He could tell Jarett about Ripley, about how he still sees her in his dreams. There are a lot of sad things Kynan could tell Jarett in exchange for this secret. But Kynan is tired of feeling sorry for himself.

 

Instead, he says a silent _screw it_ , and kisses Jarett.

 

It’s not exactly like he’s had a lot of practice. Kynan doesn’t think a desperate attempt at companionship with the blacksmith’s son counts for much in terms of experience. So when he kisses Jarett, it’s with the enthusiasm of a novice trying to make up for lack of practice with sheer gusto. Jarett’s hand comes to the back of Kynan’s neck, large and warm, and Kynan makes a pleased noise that at least he hadn’t read the signals wrong.

 

Jarett tastes like the mead they’ve been drinking, and when Kynan slides himself into Jarett’s lap, he smells that same rosewood scent that’s been plaguing him for weeks. Kynan palms at Jarett’s naked chest, which is just as rock hard to the touch as it had appeared to the eye. _Sweet Sarenrae_...

 

“Get a room!” someone calls across the dining hall. Kynan breaks away from Jarett immediately, but Jarett just raises a middle finger at the voice across the room before going in for another kiss. Kynan knows he must be bright red in the face, but he finds himself secretly pleased at how Jarett is unashamed of him in this moment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s when they get to Kynan’s room that things get more complicated.

 

Kynan just can’t get the key in the lock on his door.

 

“Take your time,” Jarett shrugs lazily. His coat is slung over his shoulders and his shirt is wrapped up under one arm.

 

Kynan _is_ taking his time though. His hands are just shaking.

 

“Come on,” Kynan says to himself, frustration coursing through him. He looks over at Jarett nervously, who seems to be peering at him with that same evaluating look.

 

“Kynan,” he says in a knowing voice, and Kynan just wants to kick his own ass from here to Kymal. Of course he’s going to block his own shot. Of _course_ he’s going to fuck this up. “Let me.”

 

He takes the ring of keys from Kynan’s trembling hands and easily inserts the proper one into the lock, turning it quickly and opening up Kynan’s door in under a few seconds. Kynan walks inside and turns to see Jarett standing in the doorway. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says quietly. “I get it. I’m a little—” and Kynan raises his shaking hands. “Nervous, I guess.”

 

He’s not nervous, though. He’s certainly not afraid of what could happened between him and Jarett. He just knows in his heart that this is a tipping point between the person that he was and the person that he wants to be. And that— _that_ is scary.

 

Jarett steps inside the room and closes the door behind him. “I’m going to tell you three things,” he says quietly. “The first is that I’ve wanted to kiss you since Vax introduced us.” Kynan flushes deeply and Jarett continues. “The second is that _this_ ,” and he takes Kynan’s shaking hands into his own, “doesn’t bother me in the slightest, because when it counts—when you’re protecting Lady Cassandra—they are steady and true.” It's the first time Jarett has even _sideways_ mentioned Kynan's fight with the assassin, but when he squeezes Kynan’s fingers tightly before bringing them to his lips, it's clear that he hasn't forgotten finding Kynan with two daggers in Lady Cassandra's would-be murderer. He kisses Kynan's fingers carefully, gently: like Kynan's hands are dangerous tools to be wary around. “The third is that, if you want, we can go to bed together tonight. I’ve been told I’m _very_ good.” Jarett talks about his sexual prowess matter-of-factly, not like he's bragging, but like his skills are just _fact_. Kynan shivers a little as Jarett brushes his lips across Kynan’s knuckles. “But perhaps we don’t have to do anything at all. We can just rest. Sleep off the mead. And maybe tomorrow, we can reassess.” He smiles, punctuating his words with a kiss across each scraped knuckle on Kynan’s hands. “Take our time. Make it count.” The relief that seeps through Kynan is almost palpable. It’s not a rejection.

 

“Another night?” Kynan asks, his voice tight with nervous energy.

 

“Another night. I promise,” Jarett nods after a moment of quiet deliberation.

 

“Then yes,” Kynan nods. The tremulous waves of nervous energy ebb out of him in an easy release of anxiety. “We can just rest.”

 

Jarett grins and then throws himself back onto Kynan’s bed. He is svelte and lean but still larger than Kynan, taking up a large portion of the mattress. “We can rest, but I’m certainly not sleeping on the floor. Hop in.”

 

Kynan scrambles onto the bed, tugging the covers over the two of them, encasing them in a warm cocoon on the mattress. He snuggles up on Jarett’s chest, their legs tangling together in a lazy pile of limbs. “Thank you.”

 

Jarett runs a hand through Kynan’s shaggy, brown hair. Kynan can’t remember the last time he felt so wanted. “There is no where else I'd rather be tonight,” he says simply, laying a kiss on Kynan’s brow. It is strange to think, but Kynan believes him.

 

Kynan can’t help but kiss him then, and the eager, unbridled lust of their first kiss has dimmed into an ember of slow, languorous want. Kynan thinks that he could kiss Jarett for days and never get bored. Every press of his lips feels new and fresh, like drinking clean water from the pond in an oasis. Kissing Jarett, Kynan finds that his thirst is slaked. Kynan, curious, rolls his heel up the side of Jarett’s calf experimentally, and Jarett makes a pleasant noise that Kynan finds terribly attractive. He tries the foot maneuver again, and Jarett rolls over him, eyes dark and wanting.

 

“Are we going to rest, or are we going to do something else entirely?” Jarett asks, a warning tone in his voice.

 

“Rest,” Kynan says innocently, but when a small grin creeps onto his face, Jarett barks out a laugh.

 

“Close your eyes, then,” Jarett suggests. Kynan does so, warily, and when he feels Jarett’s lips on one eyelid, and then the other, Kynan’s eyes blink open. “I said closed.”

 

“I want to look at you,” Kynan says daringly. He stops in the moment and tries to remember the last time he really wanted something, besides his daggers. It's certainly been a while.

 

Jarett leans back, sitting on his knees as they frame Kynan’s hips. “Look, then,” he offers.

 

Kynan does look, and the sight he sees is almost unbelievable. Jarett with his clothes on has an air of grace in his movements, poise and posture in each step he takes. Jarett naked above him is something else entirely: he is a wolf that has finally peeled off its sheep’s clothing. The man radiates a dangerous competency, and now Kynan can see Jarett for what he truly is. But Jarett is not a monster, or a beast, or some other wild thing. He is so far from Ripley they might as well be two different species. With Jarett stripped bare before him, all Kynan can see is the blinding nature of his kind heart.

 

He leans up to kiss Jarett again, and the two topple down into the sheets to touch and sigh into each other’s skin for the next few hours, until Kynan can’t stop yawning and even Jarett’s eyes flicker closed in the dark.

 

“You deserve to survive this war,” Kynan tells him in the quiet ease of the early morning shadows.

 

“So do you,” is the last thing Kynan hears before he falls asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kynan wakes up to an empty bed and a note with the beautiful scrawl of someone who was taught penmanship at a young age. _You are beautiful in the morning. I hope I live to see that sight again. — J_

 

Kynan doesn’t know he’s running until he looks down and finds the cobbled stone beneath his feet is flying beneath him. He barrels into the courtyard towards the Sun Tree, and Kynan knows exactly what he’s looking for.

 

Vox Machina is standing there before the great tree, waiting for Keyleth to cast her spell. Gilmore is standing with them in beautifully made armor that shines in the sun. The scarred halfling is there too, brandishing her mighty sword that is nearly twice her height. And then there’s—there’s _Jarett_ , and it’s obvious, so obvious that this is the group going to face off with Thordak. Kynan's heart feels like it might break in two.

 

Maybe _this_ was why Jarett was so easy with his secret last night. Maybe leaving gave Jarett freedom to kiss Kynan the way he had. Jarett knew he might not make it through the next few days. _Well fuck that_ , Kynan thinks to himself. Jarett has to _live_. He made Kynan a promise.

 

“I swear, if you don’t come back, I’ll kill you myself!” Kynan yells. He’s nearly thirty feet away, but Jarett whips around at the sound of his voice.

 

The rest of the group turns to face him, too, but Kynan doesn’t even spare them a glance.

 

Jarett puts one hand on his heart and one at his brow in salute in Kynan’s direction. Then he steps around, walking through the gate of the Sun Tree, and disappears entirely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You knew he was going to go with them?”

 

Selene makes a face. “He’s their best mercenary. Why wouldn’t Vox Machina take them with him to battle the great red beast?”

 

It seems it was common knowledge that Jarett might get selected to battle Thordak, but Kynan had been conveniently outside of that loop. It is a strange feeling, walking around Whitestone in Jarett's absence. It's a little like Kynan has missed the last step of a staircase. Nothing seems right. He's more on edge, considering that his sleep pattern has gotten even spottier. And of course, Kynan has different, crueler nightmares now. Ones where Vox Machina returns without Jarett at their side, where Vax has to tell him that Jarett died a hero protecting his charges, because _of course_ that’s how Jarett would pass into the Astral Plane. He does his damn job.

 

 _He needs a bloody bonus_ , Kynan thinks sourly.

 

“He’s the best of us, Kynan. If anyone’s going to survive, it’s him,” Selene reminds him kindly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cassandra is eating her breakfast, and Kynan is back on her service as honor guard, when she tells him to sit down across from her.

 

“M’lady,” Kynan says uncertainly. “I’m on duty.”

 

“Colm can handle it for a few minutes,” Cassandra nods, and Colm makes a face that reads _I don’t know what she’s on about_. “I want to talk to you about your future here in Whitestone.” Kynan tilts his head at her in confusion. “I never got to thank you about the other day with the Merchant’s Guild—”

 

“I was just doing my job,” Kynan defers.

 

“I know. And of course, that’s why I picked you,” Cassandra says, a knowing glint in her eye. “But I also know that this is not the life you imagined for yourself.”

 

“I am very grateful, m’lady, for the opportunity you’ve given me,” Kynan protests. “Have I seemed unhappy with my station?” This job is good to him: he makes a salary, he has lodgings. Sure, he might not have dreamed of this future as a child, but the time for putting away childish things has come.

 

“Kynan, I know what kind of cloth you’re cut from,” Cassandra continues.

 

Kynan makes a foul face. Yes, he knows. He’s like Ripley: he’s wrong, he’s been ruined from the start by her machinations and even his father’s belt—

 

“You’re an adventurer.” Kynan’s thought spiral stops in its tracts. “You’re like my brother and his friends.”

 

Kynan tilts his head sideways in confusion. Perhaps he hadn't heard her correctly.

 

“They are incredibly powerful heroes,” Kynan says slowly.

 

“They are idiots,” Cassandra laughs. “But they are heroes indeed.” Cassandra cuts her food before her in small bites before taking one piece of meat and swallowing it delicately. “When the time comes that you want to leave this place and start your own adventure—with the right people—I think you should go. You’ll always have a job in my court,” she adds, as Kynan scrambles to ask what exactly he’d done _wrong_ , “but I think we both know what you were born to become.”

 

“That’s high praise from a Lady,” Colm adds. “Wouldn’t toss it aside so easily.”

 

Kynan spends the rest of the day trying to reconcile the dreams of childhood with a future he could actually pursue. Was it really possible that all the things he'd dreamed of as a child—becoming a real hero, traveling with a group of adventurers across the continent—could actually become a reality? Cassandra certainly seemed to think so. And for the first time, Kynan thinks that he might actually have friends who would want to come along with him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He sleeps that night, and when he sleeps, he dreams.

 

His mother stands in their backyard, and she motions him forward. Kynan looks down at his hands in the dream and realizes that they are not the unused hands of a boy, but instead the cracked and weathered hands of a man.

 

She is holding a rolled up parchment for him to take. She is smiling, and Kynan tries desperately to fix her face in his memory. Her visage has become hazy in the years since her death. "Darling boy," she tells him fondly. He takes the paper and unfurls it. "You must go."

 

The parchment scroll is a beautifully detailed map of Tal'Dorei.

 

"Where?" Kynan asks, surveying the geography of the terrain in dismay. The world is just so _big_ , and Kynan is barely a blip in the span of this vast enterprise.

 

His mother takes him by the chin and tilts his face up to look at her. Kynan sighs into that touch.

 

"Take one step. Then another," she instructs him gently. "You'll find a path. Or," and she winks at him conspiratorially, "you'll make one."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kynan watches the Sun Tree when he’s not on duty. He knows it’s stupid, that he’s not helping anyone or anything by standing guard there, but it makes him feel a little better all the same.

 

The tree remains dormant for two days.

 

Kynan is about to turn in for the night when the tree begins to spark with magical energy. A doorway opens, and a group of travelers manage to run through the gateway at a near sprint.

 

“Hey, look!” Selene points out from across the courtyard, but Kynan is already walking towards the travelers. Arcanist Vysoren gets there before him, appearing next to Lady Kima in the distance and wrapping her up in a giant hug. But Kynan isn’t far behind.

 

He scans the group until he finds the face he’s looking for.

 

“The Cinder King is dead!” Scanlan shouts across the square, and cheers begin to erupt all across Whitestone. _The Cinder King is dead! The Cinder King is dead!_

 

Kynan couldn’t care less about the Cinder King in this moment.

 

Jarett is standing there before him with a bandage around his waist. There are burns on his neck that seem to snake beneath his armor, but he is standing there before Kynan with a bewildered but happy look on his face. All Kynan can think is, _h_ _e’s alive._ _He’s_ alive.

 

“We brought him back in one piece,” Vax assures him. "Well. Mostly."

 

Kynan nods before pushing Jarett backwards with as strong of a shove as he can manage. Jarett stumbles backwards, a perplexed look on his face. “That was for not telling me you were leaving,” Kynan says furiously before throwing himself into Jarett’s arms and kissing the frown on Jarett’s lips far, far away. Relief and joy barrel through him in equal measure, and Kynan feels happy for the first time since Jarett left Whitestone.

 

“I came back,” Jarett says breathlessly when Kynan finally pulls away.

 

“Shut up,” Kynan huffs, kissing him once more.

 

When Kynan finally breaks himself away from Jarett, he finds himself affixed by a curious gaze. Jarett—the beautiful, strong, funny man he's always been—is peering at Kynan like he cannot believe someone would make such a fool of themselves on his behalf. Like he's not  _worth_ this kind of ridiculous, overwhelming affection.

 

Kynan knows that kind of self-deprecation like the back of his hand. "What, did you think I wouldn't worry?" Kynan laughs, slotting himself against Jarett's side. Jarett sags him, and Kynan thinks darkly to himself that Jarett has a lot more healing to do before he re-enlists back in Vox Machina's services.

 

"I didn't—" Jarett says, his voice catching in his throat. He starts again. "I wasn't sure you would." Kynan squeezes him lightly and they start making their way back towards the castle.

 

"Well, I _guess_ you're dismissed," Scanlan calls out.

 

Jarett looks over his shoulder at Scanlan, and then the rest of the heroic crew. "You know what: I quit."

 

Jarett starts walking towards the castle with Kynan tucked under one of his arms. Kynan presses his face into the skin of Jarett's neck, sighing into the familiar scent. His lips graze across the roughened scars there and thinks, _I could travel the world with you and always feel at home._

 

"I have a question for you," Kynan says with a grin over the kerfuffle of Vox Machina's protestations behind them, all of its members in shock at Jarett's sudden two-weeks notice. "Not right now. But when you're feeling better."

 

"I think I might say yes," Jarett says conspiratorially.

 

"You don't even know the question yet!" Kynan blushes all the same. He wants to ask Jarett to go adventuring with him. He wants to take Cassandra's advice and start his own party of heroes. But without Jarett, that dream tastes bitter and ashen on his tongue. Kynan has never seen anyone more heroic than the man beneath his fingertips. He doesn't have a  _vestige_ or a bear or any other fancy magical items. No: Jarett is bravery without the trimmings. That suits Kynan just fine.

 

"All the same," Jarett shrugs, before wincing. It's clear that there are wounds under his armor and clothes that need addressing, and Kynan takes on more of Jarett's weight as they make their way to the infirmary in Whitestone Castle. "Denying you is something I'm just not interested in anymore." And Kynan has to kiss him again: gingerly, and with care. "Easy," Jarett groans as Kynan pulls away. "I'm injured." But he doesn't sound too displeased, and Kynan laughs, the sound pure and bright in the dim light of early evening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kynan is sitting on the edge of Jarett's bed while he recovers in the infirmary for the evening. He's not sure if he's allowed to be there, but he's there regardless. They couldn't ply him away if they tried. It's quiet on the wards: most of the beds are empty, and the nighttime attendants have all gone to sleep in their respective cots. "I think you saved my life," Kynan says quietly, not sure if Jarett is listening or even awake.

 

Jarett doesn't open his eyes, but instead reaches for Kynan's hand, entwining their fingers tightly. "No," he says with a kind sigh. "You saved your life. I was just a spectator."

 

Kynan face-plants himself in the middle of Jarett's chest, and he can feel Jarett laugh beneath him. "I'm so glad you're alive," he says, voice muffled.

 

"On that account, I would agree," Jarett says, tone exhausted but relieved. It all just seems too good to be true, and Kynan takes pause.

 

"Did you ever think of yourself as the kind of person who gets happy endings?" Kynan asks him.

 

Jarett thinks on it. "No. And I still don't." He smiles, teeth white and shining. "But I'm starting to think that I'm the kind of person who is lucky enough to come across a series of new beginnings, each one more beautiful than the last."

 

"Sweet talker," Kynan laughs. "That tongue will get you in trouble."

 

Jarett smirks, and a desire lights inside Kynan like a forest fire. "Oh yes," he says with a wicked grin, "it always does." He takes Kynan's hand, brings it to his mouth, and kisses his palm like he's sealing some kind of eternal pact. "The best kind of trouble."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before episode 80 airs, so fingers crossed Jarett survives to make it back to Whitestone (otherwise this fic is slightly AU).


End file.
